


How to Save a Land

by Amber_and_Ash



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber_and_Ash/pseuds/Amber_and_Ash
Summary: Everyone knew that magical and muggle things don't mix. Funny, how they'd just assumed that would always mean the muggle things would break. A century after Voldemort's defeat, magic is losing ground, and the one solution might already be out of their reach.Entry for the April 2016 Rough Trade 'Second Chances' challenge.





	1. Harry’s retirement cottage, Saturday, 31 January 2099

**Author's Note:**

> My unedited Rough Trade challenges have been piling up, so I'm going to make an effort to tidy them up at least enough to be readable, if only to get them out there. Editing usually takes the bulk of my time, however, so do not expect my posting frequency to be substantially faster with these than with new material.
> 
> During challenges, I try to pick two things I either don't do, or don't do well, and try to get them right. This challenge, they were:  
> \- descriptions of setting  
> \- conversations with three or more people

_Harry’s retirement cottage, Saturday, 31 January 2099_

Harry looked around, and realised that he was happy. The simplicity of that emotion was a surprise, and he took a moment to just experience it. This was safe. This was comforting. This was _his Retreat_.

In his younger years, he had thought the very custom of a Retreat absurd. He had thought it superannuated and sexist and sad. If a man didn't wish to retire, then he shouldn't. If he did want to retire, then what was wrong with staying in the house he lived in? Leaving every morning to spend the day somewhere else had seemed such a pathetic mockery of working life. But now he looked at the soft dragonhide couches and the diricawl rugs -- which didn't match the couches or each other -- with a great deal of satisfaction. This was his place, and the first place in his entire life he could truly call his own.

The protected courtyard had been set up for the house-wakening ceremony. He didn't need the extra magic from his friends to raise the wards, of course, but he found himself wanting to share the moment with the people he loved. It was a chance to relax, a chance to show off, and a chance to be himself. Not even the disapproval of his wife was going to take this away from him.

Ginny herself stood in the courtyard, stiff and solemn, glaring up at the decorations. By convention, this was the first time she had seen the place, and she would not return until it came time to strip everything away again after his death. It was the one thing Harry hadn’t been forced to fight for, even though Ginny had been visibly unhappy. Retreats were a tradition that even the lightest and most progressive of families respected. Molly had certainly never invaded Arthur's shed without explicit permission, and Ginny bowed to that convention.

Ginny whirled when he stepped out, gesturing to the middle of the courtyard. “Couldn't you have put your foot down about the... the... that?”

Harry grinned at the 'that' – a fountain made of cake. Layers of vanilla and strawberry and chocolate and pumpkin and mint, reaching from the floor to all the way to his shoulder. Over them all, founts of fudge and caramel and butterbeer cascaded from one level to the next. Charmed chocolate and marzipan and sugar rocks clinked into each other with the sound of bells. It was absurd and wonderful and ridiculously indulgent.

“It was a gift from Ron, Ginny. It would have hurt his feelings if I'd refused it,” said Harry.

Ginny moved he arms to her hips. “We both know the only thing it would have hurt was his stomach, because he would have eaten the whole thing by himself. In fact, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if that’s what Ron had intended in the first place.”

“Oi, oi! Who's using my name as a hex, then?” called Ron.

Harry moved to the entrance to rescue some further trays of food from him. From how harassed Hermione was looking it wasn’t the first time they’d nearly come to disaster.

Ron walked over to the fountain and sighed in deep satisfaction. “You can’t be saying anything bad about the cake. That’s against some sort of rule, that is. I mean, that’s the King of all cakes. You can’t just go around criticising a king.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and then deliberately turned her back on Ron to re-arrange the already adequately arranged trays.

“Hi Hermione, Ron. Where are Rose and Hugo?” asked Harry.

“They got waylaid by your own kids and conscripted into bringing through more tables,” replied Hermione, accepting a hug and kiss from Harry now that her hands were empty.

“More tables?” asked Ginny. “How are we going to fit _more_ tables anywhere? Don’t you think you’ve over catered a bit?”

Harry refrained from pointing out he hadn’t catered anything, and that it would be ungracious in the extreme to refuse the offerings his guests brought with them. Ginny already knew that.

“And another thing,” continued Ginny, swinging around to face Harry again. “I thought we agreed you wouldn't have fairy lights at events.”

“I like them,” said Harry calmly. “In fact, I'm considering keeping them up permanently. They're friendly.”

“Harry,” said Ginny. “Please, try to be a little serious. What will people think of you? This whole place looks like you’re throwing a children's party.”

Harry replied, “They aren’t going to think anything of me. Everyone coming already knows exactly who I am.”

“You have your position—“ started Ginny.

Harry immediately cut her off. “No I don’t. Not anymore, and definitely not here. These are our friends and family, Ginny. If any one of them still expects me to be the next coming of Merlin, then it’s about time they learnt better anyway.”

Ginny didn’t look mollified. “It will get out into the papers, and you know it will. You can’t afford this. In the current situation –”

“Oh, not that again,” groaned Ron.

“Oh, yes, this again!” said Ginny, still looking at Harry and pretending Ron wasn’t there. “You _know_ how scared people are getting. What possessed you to have a house-wakening of all things?”

Harry closed his eyes and recited the alphabet backwards in Elder Futhark. “Firstly, house-wakening is just a name. No-one has ever actually tried to waken a living land at one of these things. 'Everyone' knows that. Secondly, I didn’t fight my entire life just to give into bigotry at my age! There's nothing wrong with living lands.”

“It isn’t bigotry, Harry!” hissed Ginny. “If there’s nothing wrong with them, then why are they getting stronger while places like the Redlands have been robbed of magic?”

Hermione sounded as impatient as Ron with the argument when she interrupted. “They aren’t getting stronger. They just aren’t failng as quickly. They have higher intrinsic levels of magic, so they have more protection against the information dense wireless technology the muggles are using these days. In fact, the main reason we are so exposed at the moment is because all the lands orphaned during the Second Voldemort War are now reaching the end of their Sleeping Beauty centuries, and are no longer living. We _should_ be trying to waken the land. If we had more of them around, we’d be better off.”

The table bearing brigade had arrived during the speech, and James said in his ‘official comforting the masses’ tone, “the ministry hasn’t found any evidence that the problems have anything to do with the actions of muggles.”

That immediately raised Hermione’s hackles. “The ministry, present company excluded, are a bunch of idiots. They just can’t bring themselves to believe that the muggles have finally become stronger than us.”

Harry could see the whole evening in jeopardy, and spoke to keep things calm. “Perhaps the ministry wants to wait until they have a solution before they announce anything. You have to admit, Hermione, there are still people around who would use it as an excuse to speak out against muggles and muggleborns. The last thing we want is to raise new tensions in that direction.”

“Well, there is that,” she replied.

Harry hurried to start giving directions on table placement to prevent the conversation from restarting. It seemed to work, and by the time the last of the guests had arrived, everyone was once again cheerful, or at least doing a convincing job of acting like it.

Harry probably should have remembered that nothing ever went his way. He felt the shift, but he refused to believe it. Everyone knew that the number of people present put stress on the magic of a place, but even Ginny had been worried about the appearances of things, not about the risk they were running. He had powered the wards personally, and Harry’s magic did not fail.

But within minutes, it was too obvious to deny. Harry’s magic _was_ failing, disappearing like water into a sinkhole.

Harry had heard this process described, and he was ashamed to realise how dismissive he’d been of the experience. He’d imagined it to be like going through Thief’s Downfall. Disorientating and embarrassing certainly, depending on how much one relied on support spells, warming charms, glamours and the like. But ultimately harmless. After all, Harry went without magic every time he stepped into the muggle world.

He’d underestimated how much difference it made when the process was involuntary. He’d underestimated just how much of his every day surroundings depended on magic. He underestimated how much it would hurt. Chairs and tables cracked and crashed as they took full weight for the very first time. Winter howled in through the missing barriers. Streamers fell from the air like dying swarms of birds.

Harry and the more sensible of his guests froze in place. Spells would just make things worse and there was nothing to do but wait for it all to finish and settle in a new equilibrium. In the chaos and the screaming and the fear, the only thing Harry found himself paying any attention to was the cake. The ‘That’, the ridiculous every-colour every-flavour fountain cake. Bereft of their support, the layers slid off one by one to drown in the growing pool of muddy sauce, like a caricature of a murder scene. At last, the cake simply gave way, and collapsed into a mess of colours.

Harry took a deep breath, and judged it finally over.

There would be no more celebrations after this. After a brief census, Harry was reassured that his guests were more shocked than injured. From habit borne of a lifetime of crisis management, Harry calmed them all down and arranged transport for them back to a still magical environment. Hermione cast an apologetic look over her shoulder as she left, but Harry waved her off. She had to get Ron home, and it wouldn’t be safe to start the clean up here without magic. Eventually, it was just Harry and Ginny left, and Harry had nothing left to take his mind off things.

Harry stooped to pick up a fragile sphere that still tried to glow. He blew on it, hoping that at least this one little living thing would survive. For a brief moment, the light swelled and Harry hoped… but it faded away just as quickly. His second breath had less effect, and his third had none at all. It went dead in his hands, and he laid it carefully back on the ground to rest amongst its brethren.

He looked up to find Ginny glaring at him, her hair a fright of frizzled whiteness after the collapse of her glamour charms. “I told you not to have fairy lights. Now look what you’ve done.”

Harry bit down hard enough on his lip to draw blood, then followed Ginny as they apparated back to their house. His Retreat was gone, and nothing he could do now would change that.


	2. St. Mungo waiting room, Sunday, 15 March 2099

_St. Mungo waiting room, Sunday, 15 March 2099_

Six weeks later, Harry had still been debating what to do with his retreat with Hermione when they’d been summoned to St Mungo’s. They strode through the bare corridors filled with hard lines and ozone, courtesy of heavy duty cleaning charms, to the appointed family waiting room. They found most of the Weasley clan already there. Harry felt irrationally guilty about wasting Hermione’s time with complaints about the unobtainable prices of magical land and his repeated lack of effect on refilling any magic on his own. If they’d left the tea shop earlier, or hadn’t gone for lunch at all, Hermione would have found out about Rose much earlier.

Harry closed the door behind them and glanced around the room. It must have been St. Mungo’s largest, and it still wasn’t enough. There were plenty of seats. The spindly chairs set against the avocado coloured walls contained only an elderly in-law and a nursing mother – one of Victoire’s granddaughters, Harry thought. There wasn’t much floorspace. Everyone else was packed into the centre, the mass of family members even further augmented by friends and co-workers. 

Hermione threaded her way to Ron. “How is Rose?”

Ron just shook his head and turned away from her, leaving her hand still outstretched towards him. Harry took it instead and pulled her into a side hug.

“They don’t want to commit to anything yet,” said Hugo instead, his voice breaking over the words. “But it doesn’t sound good, Mum. She was so pale…”

Hermione said, “Have you seen her? What happened to her?”

An official – Harry vaguely thought he might be Jareth Grant or Grahams from the research division – sniffed disapprovingly. “I’m afraid we can’t say. She was on ministerial business.”

“You can’t say?” asked Hermione, her voice climbing. “What do you mean, you can’t say? What did you do to my daughter?”

Jareth drew himself up so that he could look down his nose. “Her professional duties are confidential, as you should be aware.”

“Her research is confidential,” said Hermione impatiently. “Not whatever…”

Hermione trailed off and made eye contact with Harry as they made the connection at the same time.

“Unless the ministry has been violating protocol about conducting secret experiments,” said Harry, his voice instinctively resuming the disapproving tone he had perfected as Head Auror.

Jareth quailed for a moment, before recovering and looking twice as angry for his instinctive response. “For the good of the magical world, we removed the overly restrictive protocols you crippled us with during your term in office, _sir_. We did nothing wrong.”

Hermione said, “You most certainly did do something wrong if Rose was injured!”

Hugo interrupted, “Don’t blame Jareth, Mum. He did everything he could, and this wasn’t the Ministry’s fault. This was Draco Malfoy. His land killed my sister.”

“Rose isn’t dead,” said Ron quietly.

“How could it possibly be Malfoy’s fault?” asked Harry, ignoring him. “He isn’t part of the ministry. He barely steps foot outside of his clubs and his own manor these days.”

But Hermione narrowed her eyes. “His _land_ killed her? You mean to say that this experiment took part on Malfoy land? How did you ever get him to agree to that?”

“Rose isn’t dead,” said Ron repeated. No one paid any attention that time either.

Jareth tried again. “I’m afraid we can’t—”

Hugo spoke right over him. “Of course he didn’t agree. That’s why he set it all up. The coward set up a bunch of booby traps, and then ran for it. He left Astoria and Scorpius behind to lull us into a false sense of security, and then—”

“Are you seriously trying to say that Malfoy left his only son—“ interrupted Harry incredulously before getting interrupted again himself.

“—just another sacrifice to his precious land, no doubt feeding it with the blood—“

There was a choked sound, almost overwhelmed by the volume of their own voices. But the emotion in that raw utterance was enough to draw everyone’s attention to the door. Framed in the unforgiving doorway was the man himself, a monochrome contrast between his white face and his severe robes.

“You bastard!” said Hugo, making for Malfoy. “You’ll pay for what you did.”

Harry grabbed Hugo and used his momentum to swing him around in the opposite direction. Hugo was substantially bigger and younger than Harry, but there were some skills Harry had never forgotten. Harry looked towards Ron and swiftly determined that Ron would be of no use in keeping his son under control. At least Ron wasn’t going after Malfoy himself, Harry told himself in resignation.

“Enough!” Harry said when Hugo moved to go around him again. “This isn’t the time or the place. You will control yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Hugo, his fists gradually loosening. “But you’ll get what you have coming to you sooner or later, Malfoy.”

An anxious assistant hurried over and put a tentative arm on Malfoy’s arm. “Our apologies, Mister Malfoy, your waiting room is further along the corridor. The healer dealing with your wife and son will be with you in a moment.”

Malfoy didn’t seem to register the words for a long while, still staring at Hugo like he was Voldemort reborn. Then Malfoy shook his head abruptly and walked passed the doorway without saying a word.

Harry moved to close the door and stand in front of it, glaring at anyone who looked like they wanted to follow Malfoy. “No one deserves to be attacked when they’re waiting to find out if, come tomorrow, they might be all alone in the world. Remember your decency.”

Hermione spoke, her voice precise and restrained. “We need to be concentrating on Rose right now. Not on getting into fights. We need to be strong for her, alright?”

“I am being strong for her, Mum!” said Hugo. “You’re the one that seems to want to let the people behind this get off scot-free.”

“That’s the last thing I want,” said Hermione. “We will make sure the ministry—“

Hugo interrupted her. “The ministry had nothing to with this. This is all Malfoy, and I’m surprised that you can’t seem to see that.”

Harry wasn’t in the habit of fighting Hermione’s fights, but Hugo was going a little far. “Hugo, think things through logically. You must know how much Malfoy dotes on his son. If he’d done anything deliberately, he would have taken his family with him.”   

Nothing in the last century had done much to change Harry’s opinion of Malfoy as a selfish coward with occasional moments of common sense, but it was absurd to accuse him of having deliberately endangered his son.

Hugo turned to Harry with a look that bordered on contemptuous. “I should have known you would defend him. You people all stand up for each other.”

Harry blinked in shock. “My people? In what possible reality are Malfoy and I in the same category of people?”

“You’re both dark families,” said Young Molly unexpectedly. Young Molly, who had been saddled with an increasingly inappropriate nick-name for almost as long as Harry had been the boy-who-lived, was greeted with protests and exclamations, but they weren’t as shocked as Harry would have expected.

“Look,” she continued, with pedantic determination. “I apologise to James and Lily. We all know you’re both very good people. It isn’t your fault who your relatives are. But we can’t keep ignoring the truth to spare your feelings. Everyone knows that the Potters are dark.”

Harry’s disbelief was not only that Young Molly would say such a thing, but that none of the audience looked particularly surprised by the attack. Not even his own children.

“The Potter family has been light for generations,” Harry said. “Did you all forget that my father and grandfather died fighting Voldemort?”

“Yeah,” said one of the great-grandchildren. “I bet they laughed themselves sick, playing both sides like that. They played the perfect Gryffindors, making out like they were all just and noble, and all that time they were just doing everything they could to make sure they came out on top of the heap. Making sure _The Great Harry Potter_ ended up on top of the heap.”

“Be fair, everyone,” said James, but he sounded weak. “Dad didn’t know anything about it. They were all dead before he was a year old.”

Young Molly firmed her position and lifted her chin. “But he would have gone right along with them if he had. We all heard it. You can’t deny it now. I was right there when the Potter living lands died seventeen years ago. Uncle Harry didn’t say a thing about how ashamed he was to find out his family had owned it. No, he went on about what a tragedy it was that he hadn’t found out about it in time to save it. Uncle Harry didn’t care that they’d been dark. He just cared that they’d messed up so badly that they hadn’t let him in on that little secret.”

“That’s absurd. There’s nothing to suggest living lands are dark just because some dark families had them,” said Harry.

“Which is just what someone dark _would_ say, isn’t it?” said Young Molly triumphantly.

Hugo said, “Probably would have been perfectly happy to slaughter some people on his alter, the way Malfoy slaughtered Rose—“

“Stop talking about Rose like she’s already dead!” screamed Ron.

They all froze. Harry felt himself go white, and then red. No matter what hysteria had overcome the younger Weasley’s, he should have had more control and taken his own advice. This wasn’t the time. Harry felt ashamed of himself.  

The door opened, and they all turned as one.

The healer’s expression didn’t lend itself to hope. “I regret to inform you that the magic has departed from Rose Weasley. There was nothing we could do for her.”

Down the hall, Harry could hear similar words being repeated to Malfoy until they were drowned out by the wails of the Weasley clan. Hermione’s weight was suddenly heavy on his arm and the world that much colder.  

Rose was dead, and nothing else mattered.


	3. Weasley Burrow, Friday, 1 May 2099

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation … A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work.” – Henry David Thoreau

_Weasley Burrow, Friday, 1 May 2099_

The argument had been abandoned to take care of Rose’s funeral, and had not been picked up again in the following six weeks. Whatever vendetta may have been pursued against Malfoy, it was below the level of Harry’s attention. Harry didn’t worry about it too much. He doubted Malfoy was even in a state to notice, let alone care about, yet more Weasley prejudice.

Now that Harry was paying more attention, he could see the fault lines between him and the younger generation Weasleys. There was a hint of formality, a careful avoidance of topics, and an excess of sympathy for Ginny. They were treating him like a racist grandma whose wildly inappropriate comments were better ignored than challenged. Harry wasn’t sure what had led to it all, but he had more sympathy for the stereotype now. He was simply too old and too settled into himself to pander to their hysteria. He had more than a hundred years of people adoring him or condemning him. When he had retired, he had promised himself that he would never worry about his public image again. He wasn’t going to break that promise just because the judgemental herd was closer to him than he’d previously realised.

But Harry still appreciated his duty, and his duty required him to attend the annual Weasley Summer Day Celebration with his wife and his oldest two children. The clan was entirely too large for it to halt all activities every time someone happened to die. This death, though, was affecting the general atmosphere to a greater degree than Harry had seen since the war. More than one adult stood around glaring at anyone who seemed to be having too much fun. The baker’s dozen of pre-Hogwarts children ignored them to run wild around the Burrow garden.

Harry paused to watch them. Their white robes were slowly staining multiple colours from traditional berries and untraditional chocolates. Their shrieks and calls blended seamlessly into the racket from the tormented gnomes. Their sprigs of Hawthorn were abandoned every which where, with only unravelling strands of ribbons to indicate their original owner. As if to join in their rebellion of the attempted solemnity, the decorations were aggressively festive. The flowers over the door knobs bloomed with fragile and improbable vigour. Unattended Morris bells jingled with no external cause. The ribbons of the maypole reached out to passers-by with greater urgency than Harry could remember them having before. Harry stepped carefully, not wishing to be caught and forced to dance, and made his way into the kitchen.

In slow steps after the war, the house had been rebuilt to the exact mismatched mess it had been before. Physically, it matched his memories of the first time Harry had visited. Emotionally, it more closely matched his memories of Privet Drive, and had for a long time before Rose’s death.

He could not forget the slow tragedy of Fleur Weasley, and his own gnawing guilt about not having done more. When she had first become mistress of the Burrow, she had spoken about what she wanted to do with the place once the family had moved past the worst of grief for Molly. Then she had spoken about what she planned to do with the place once whatever current crisis in the Weasley family was over. Then she had spoken about what she planned to do once she finally got out of the place.

And then it had been too late.

Fluer had passed away still doing the sacrificing, without ever being the one sacrificed for. Harry had sat with her in the orchard, on one of the good days, as she wept her frustration at being forced to live her last moments in a shrine. The Burrow belonged to the clan, and no one couple could have the strength to stand against them. Harry had wondered whether the obvious love she’d had for Bill had made giving up her own life worth it, but he had never been cruel enough to ask.

After that, Percy had taken over the role as paterfamilias with his wife. They had fewer illusions perhaps, and had therefore fewer disappointments. Percy had always known it would be a grim penance, and had resigned himself to paying it. Harry thought Molly would have been horrified at what her beloved higgledy-piggledy house had become.

Young Molly was waiting for him in the kitchen with some of the rest of her generation. They regarded him from the other side of the kitchen table, like a jury facing a defendant, or chickens objecting to a fox. Harry clenched his teeth, but it was too late for him to politely retreat.

“Okay,” said Young Molly with her hands on her hips. “This has gone on long enough. There’s something you need to know. You have a duty to your children, no matter what you might think.”

“Molly!” said Hugo, through clenched teeth.

“Hugo!” she mocked back. “It’s true and you know it. What were you and James going to do, present him with some papers and ask him to sign them without reading them?”

“No decisions have been made yet,” said Hugo. “There might still be other options for Lily and James.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the exclusion of Albus from Hugo’s list. Harry doubted it was simply because Albus had not returned to the British shores in years. Harry had tried very hard not to have any favourites amongst the cousins, but Hugo’s obvious contempt for Slytherins and Harry’s youngest son had always made it hard for Harry not to dislike Hugo. Hugo might have been a polyjuice copy of Ron when he had been younger, but Ron had outgrown the worst of his prejudices. Hugo never had.  

“Pipe dreams,” said Young Molly. “There’s no way the ministry would let them keep the money unless the whole family is redeemed, and you know it.”

Hermione and James slipped in through the inner door, and carefully shut it behind them.

“Somebody,” said Harry, “talk to me.”

Young Molly turned to him. “What happened to poor Rose and the others was just the last straw. Everyone knows we aren’t getting anywhere with our experiments. And everyone knows we’re running out of money.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “The research cannot possibly be putting that degree of strain on the ministry budget.”

“We’re not supposed to be speaking about this,” said Hugo with a glare towards Young Molly.

“You say that like it isn’t obvious to anyone with a brain,” Young Molly said to him before turning back to Harry. “It’s not just the research. Every time a new place loses magic, there are recovery costs. More importantly, every time, the government loses that tax revenue, forever.”

Harry stilled at that. Young Molly was right. It was an obvious consequence, but not one he’d considered. Because the government always complained about not having enough money. Because no one was dying from it. Because the problem itself was short-term, surely.

“Alright,” said Harry. “I can believe there’s a genuine problem. What’s being proposed to do something about it that needs my input?”

Hugo cleared his throat.

Young Molly ignored him entirely. “That’s equally obvious. Everyone knows that not _everyone_ is suffering from the difficulties. Some families having been doing very well out of our disaster. The ministry thinks that it is only fair – and really, only practical – that those families bear the burden of the increases in taxes that we need.”

Harry could see multiple ways in which a philosophy like that could go wrong, but he had no desire to debate it with a hostile audience. “And how does this affect me? I’m retired from a life of civil service. I’ve never owned a business to profit of anything.”

James edged forward from where he had been hiding by the door. “It’s the definition they’re using to determine those families, Father. Any family that owns, or has owned, living land. That includes the Potters.”

Harry had to replay that in his head to make sure he understood it correctly. “Any family who has ever owned a living land? That’s probably everyone, including the muggleborns, if you believe the re-kindled squib line theory.”

The lines around James’s mouth tightened. “They can’t check forever, obviously. But anyone who has owned one in the recent past.”

“Then it doesn’t apply to the Potters,” pointed out Harry. “No-one has been on the land in more than a hundred years. I donated the whole thing in its entirety without ever having set foot on it.”

Hugo snorted. “You and apparently everyone else.”

James didn’t look at Hugo, but he didn’t speak against him either. He continued in his customary precise tone. “The ministry has reason to believe that a number of families have recently been fraudulently pretending to give up their lands to avoid the stigma. They sell a worthless piece of land with an unused house for an over-inflated price, and claim it’s all that remains of the living land they used to own. Since magical census data does not function on living land, they think they can just lie about it and get away with it. They’ll soon discover that they’re wrong about that.”

Harry was unimpressed with both the sentiment and James himself, but that was an emotion he had long practice at suppressing. “So you are saying that the Potters are going to get caught out by a technicality. Dare I ask about this plan you didn’t want Molly to speak to me about?”

James and Hugo shared a look. Hugo shrugged, and James continued. “The ministry _is_ trying not to penalise people who have been accidentally included. They’re proposing to strictly link it to the family name. It will only apply to those who still have the same surname as the original owners of the living land.”

“It’s brilliant,” said Hugo. “Everyone knows how those dark bastards get about their legacies. They’d rather be tortured to death than abandon their precious pride. We’ll be hitting them right where it hurts.”

“So,” said James, bringing the attention back to himself, “All we need to do to avoid everything is take on Mum’s surname instead of yours before the bill is finalised.”

“You want us to stop being Potters,” said Harry. “To cater to the ministry’s inability to formulate a proper tax plan.”

“It’s the best solution—“ said James.

“It’s a coward’s solution,” said Harry. “And an over-reaction. More-over, a reaction that makes us look guilty. We have nothing the Ministry can tax. What is the Ministry planning to do? Throw me in Azkaban? Refuse to pay my pension? What on earth will that gain them? They can’t take what we don’t have.”

The group shifted, and Harry remembered Young Molly’s mysterious comment about money.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I hate to break it to you, James, but there is nothing else. Your mother and I are living off our pensions. The only thing you’re going to get when we die is a third-part of the house – should that still be standing.”

This time the looks exchanged made a spider web of silent communication. Harry suspected he had not convinced them of anything, but found himself indifferent to that fact.

“We know that,” said James, with at least an attempt to sound sincere, “But surely you can see why the Ministry would be suspicious in general. We need to handle this the right way.”

Harry found himself at the end of his tolerance. As cold and formal as if he was talking to strangers, Harry said, “And the right way is with courage and integrity. Not using privileged information to attempt a legal subterfuge. If you will excuse me.”

Harry left the kitchen before anyone had a chance to protest. Harry couldn’t leave the property until the end of the day, not without leaving the clan open to malicious gossip. He could, however, hide. He dropped down between the same two trees where he had failed to comfort Fleur those many years before. After half an hour, a no doubt carefully judged time to allow him to cool down, Hermione came to join him.

Cautious of her hips, she sat down carefully on the bed of dying flowers. “I don’t think Ginny agrees with them, you know. She likes being a Potter.”

Harry laughed, low and painfully. “Ironically, she’s the one person I would quite like to make a Weasley again. Just, you know, leaving _me_ still a Potter.”

“Because of all this?” asked Hermione, startled. “I don’t—”

Harry interrupted, “Oh, no. No, since back when Lily first moved out. Unfortunately, in all that time, she’s never once done anything to contravene our marriage vows.”

“You haven’t loved her in decades,” said Hermione, making it a statement rather than a question.

Since it seemed the occasion for inappropriate confessions, Harry made one he usually hid even from himself. “To be honest, I can’t figure out why I ever loved her.”

Hemione gave that the time it deserved. “Do you suspect potions?”

Harry grimaced. “I don’t know. From a legal point of view, you know, it doesn’t matter. Not with the wedding vows we took. The solicitor said I’d only be able to do something if I convinced my younger self not to be such a complete idiot and put a proper Potter betrothal contract in place. Since I didn’t, I am completely, magically, screwed. Or not screwed, to be more literally accurate.”

Hermione rewarded his terrible pun with a nudge to his shoulder. “It might not matter legally, but it makes a big difference emotionally.”

“True,” said Harry, “But probably in the exact opposite direction that it should. If I was under the influence of potions, it would feel better. I would be a victim. I wouldn’t be equally guilty for the mess we both got in to when we were too young to know better. It isn’t just me who suffered, you know. Ginny isn’t happy either. We’ve both spent a lifetime trying to convince ourselves that we could be happy.”

“Ginny seems happy enough to be the famous Mrs Potter,” said Hermione.

Harry leaned back. “She finds what rewards she can out of the situation, as I do. Merlin knows, it isn’t very much. Even if she did potion me, she’s lived to regret it. This isn’t the life that anyone would have planned for themselves.”

There was nothing to say, and they sat there saying nothing.

Eventually Harry stood and pulled Hermione up beside him. “Come on. This place is making me maudlin. Let’s go see if there’s any lemon mead left.”

They both constructed their happy faces, and walked towards the sounds of playing children. They could pretend to be content for the day. They’d had plenty of practice at it.


	4. Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Sunday, 10 May 2099

_Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Sunday, 10 May 2099_

A week and a half later, the trio met up for lunch at Fortescue’s. Fortescue’s had expanded after the war. They’d expanded in terms of the space they had absorbed from the burned out and abandoned properties alongside them on Diagon Alley. They’d also expanded in terms of the food they provided. The menu was no longer limited to ice cream, but had every and any sort of confectionery the inner child could want, and had been the supplier of the doomed fountain cake. It still wasn’t really a suitable place for a meal, but Ron and Harry together could usually talk Hermione into an occasional dessert-only lunch. It helped that Fortescue’s had always been one of the few places to treat them all with privacy and consideration.

Sitting there had been bitter-sweet even before the cake. It was a reminder of the more innocent days before the war, but it was also a memorial to the war itself. The history was inscribed in the very floor. Scorch marks from the Second Voldemort War had been preserved and polished up, with the names of victims inscribed in every damaged stone block. Everything from that time that could be rescued and recycled, had been. Sitting down was always an experiment. The table they had been led to had one leg that was just subtly off from ninety degrees, and another that looked like it had been intended for a different, more decorative, piece of furniture. Harry drew up his chair gingerly, and was relieved when nothing rocked or creaked.

Ron looked around to make sure no one could overhear them in a manner disgracefully obvious for his experience, and said, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I promised the kids I'd say something to you about the name change thing."

Hermione face-palmed. Harry’s momentary spike of anger drained away into unwilling humour. Trust Ron to be that clumsy about it. Harry attempted to sidestep it. “Well, you can say you’ve talked about it, and now we can have the rest of our lunch in peace.”

Ron ignored him. “I just don’t get what all the fuss is about. You know that we’ve always thought of you as one of the family, even before you married Ginny. Is taking the Weasley name something you’re suddenly too good for?”

“Don’t be absurd, Ron,” said Harry. “You know it isn’t that. It’s not about being good enough. If I’d been adopted by the Weasleys as a child, I would have been thrilled. If Ginny and I had sat down and decided to take her name when we got married, I would have been alright with that too.”

“Then what’s the problem?” asked Ron.

Harry sighed. “I’ve been Harry James Potter for almost a hundred and twenty years now. They’re not just asking me to throw away my name. They’re asking me to throw away my entire sense of self. They want me to pretend to be so ashamed of myself that I’ll abandon my link to everything I’ve ever done in my life. They want me to pretend to be so ashamed of my family that I’ll write them out of history. They want me to pretend to be so ashamed of my Mum and Dad that I’ll act like them sacrificing their own lives _wasn’t good enough_ for me.”

Maybe Young Molly had been right about his leanings. She might feel scornful and morally superior about 'those' dark families willing to be tortured to death rather than change their name, but a fury Harry didn't want to acknowledge agreed perfectly with the sentiment. An even more hidden impulse was to torture his enemies to death instead. But Harry somehow suspected the Weasley clan would be even quicker to water the earth with the blood of anyone suggesting they give up _their_ family identity. Harry found himself clutching the sides of his chair a little too tightly for the potentially fragile wood, and slowly loosened his grasp. 

“Harry,” said Ron, looking towards Hermione. Hermione had moved on to staring at her menu with complete preoccupation, and didn’t look up.

Harry waited, hoping that Ron would let it drop, but it seemed the pressure that had been applied to him by the other side of the family outweighed the awkwardness of the current conversation. They had chosen their spokesman well. Anyone else, and Harry would have just walked away. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Ron deserved more than that from him.

Ron started again. “I’m not trying to argue you out of doing what you think is right, but I’m not convinced this is important enough for you to stick your neck out for.”

Which, to be fair, wasn’t anything Harry hadn’t told himself in the last week. Accept the minor irritant, and live to fight another day. It wasn't like people would stop recognising him.

“We don’t know for sure that the Ministry won’t be reasonable,” said Harry. “But if they’re not, then I shouldn’t be running from it. I won’t be the only victim. There will be plenty of other people the Ministry are equally unreasonable about who don’t have the advantages that I do. I can’t just abandon them because I can.”

Ron fiddled with the sugar container while his ears heated up. It was a tell-tale sign that he knew something he wasn’t supposed to. Harry, wanting the entire conversation to end, almost ignored it. But a macabre curiosity set in. Considering what they’d already told him, it would be interesting to find out what could be worse.

“What is it?” asked Harry.

“Well, you know, it isn’t everyone,” said Ron.

Harry kept his expression neutral. “I’m sure it isn’t.”

“It’s just,” continued Ron, “When it comes to the big things, you know? Considering everything that’s going on. People are scared. They aren’t going to want to rock the boat.”

“And?” said Harry, with a raised eyebrow. The fact that the wizarding world was composed of sheep was hardly dramatic enough to provoke that much unease.

“Just…” Ron the red flushing down his neck and into his cheeks. “Damn it, Harry, don’t make me say it out loud.”

Harry didn’t give an inch. “I think you’re going to have to.”

“People are angry with you, alright?” said Ron, angry now himself. “You’ve been out of sight since your retirement, so there’s been nothing to stop the rumours about what the Potters were really like. You’re more likely to hurt any cause you join than help it.”

Hermione emerged from behind her defences and placed the menu down precisely. “That’s ridiculous. Even if you buy into the whole 'living lands are bad' thing, it’s not like Harry gained any advantage from it. Blaming him is even more illogical than the wizarding world usually gets.”

“You don’t understand,” said Ron impatiently. “People didn’t just support Harry because they liked _Harry_. They supported him because they saw him as Dumbledore’s heir. A lot of people owed Dumbledore some serious debts, and they felt like they were paying it back by helping Harry. But then it came out that the Potters had living lands, and everyone knows how Dumbledore felt about those. Dumbledore would never have handed over his mantle to Harry if he’d known. People feel like they’ve been tricked into backing Harry.”

Ron swung back to Harry, “And don’t give me that bit about donating it again. If you’d gone out in public and told everyone how shocked and horrified and ashamed you were, then that might have been one thing. But you didn’t. You were more upset that the cursed thing had died than it had existed at all. Did you think people didn’t notice? Dumbledore gave you the ultimate honour, and you just pissed all over it. They’re afraid that, now that we’re so close to succeeding in wiping them out, you’ll somehow manage to bring them all back again. And yes, I know that last bit is bullshit, but they believe the legend. They still think you can do anything. It’s just that now they're worried that you'll do the wrong thing. So now is not the time to hand them a weapon to use against you.”

Harry leaned back, as if physically distancing himself from Ron’s words. People had really been supporting him because of Dumbledore?

_How dare they._

They were supposed to be doing things because they’d agreed it was the right thing to do. They were supposed to be looking at the facts and not the people. They were supposed to have left the old boy’s network behind when they’d locked up the death eaters. They’d lied to him.

While Harry was trying to reconcile his memories with this new point of view, Hermione pounced on a part of Ron’s speech Harry hadn’t even noticed. “How close ‘we’ are to succeeding? You mean you’re actively trying to kill them?”

Ron’s complexion drained from red into white. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

Hermione was openly horrified. “Why would anyone do anything like that? The living lands are the only thing keeping any magic available!”

“Oh, for…” said Ron, throwing up his hands. “This is the damn house elves all over again. Once you get an idea into your head, you just refuse to listen to anyone. Living lands are _evil_ , Hermione! It doesn’t even matter if you’re right. I mean, if we could keep the Wizarding World stable by performing human sacrifice once a year, would you?”

Harry laid a hand on Hermione’s arm. They held eye contact for a second before she shrugged.

“I’m listening, Ron,” Harry said. “Explain it to me. All I was told was that living land was just property that has gained enough sentience to bond with its owner. Like your Dad’s car. Nothing as terrible as human sacrifice.”

Ron’s eyes were fever bright. “That’s the official line, but it's mainly so they don't give anyone any ideas. Human sacrifice isn't necessary, but that doesn’t mean people didn’t do it. You don’t understand how bad it got in the Grindelwald war. Dumbledore himself was almost killed when the old guard turned the lands against the Light. The people who control living lands? They used to be called kings, and it wasn’t just because they were pretentious berks. It was because they had absolute power. Once inside, nothing left their lands without permission. Not information, not their families, and most definitely not their enemies. All those muggle stories about witches stealing children? Where did you think they were all going? One of Dumbledore’s most cherished aims was to save everyone by getting rid of the living lands and the dark wizards who owned them.”

Hermione leaned forward before Harry could decide what he thought about that. “And because Dumbledore was the only source of information for generations of magic users, I’m guessing that no one in the last century since has bothered to question it? Seriously, Ron, the wizarding world needs to stop defining themselves by one man. Even the people who hate Dumbledore define themselves by opposition to him. It’s pathetic, and it's lazy.”

“Dumbledore was a great man,” said Ron, redness recovering the ground it had lost on his face.

“Sure,” said Hermione. “And he’d hate what people are doing in his memory just as much as I do. Curbing the excesses and wrong-doings of those ‘kings’ sounds like a worthwhile and noble goal. But Dumbledore wasn’t all-knowing. He couldn’t see the future. If he had been, he’d have tried to figure out a way to do that without killing the lands themselves. We should be trying to do what he would have wanted, rather than what he said.”

“Like what?” challenged Ron with his arms crossed.

“Like creating living lands that act like Hogwarts with an appointed owner,” said Hermione. “Or creating communication spells that work across the boundaries. Or even just creating a ring of empty living lands to protect a non-living common area in the middle from muggle tech.”

Ron snorted, “If it were that easy, someone would have done it.”

“Have they tried?” asked Harry. “From what you and the kids have been saying, Ron, the Ministry isn’t just keeping quiet about what they’re doing. They’re honestly making no progress towards any kind of solution.”

“Because they refuse to admit the root cause of the problem in the first place!” said Hermione, flinging her hands up.

“If you’re so smart, why aren’t you solving it then?” asked Ron.

Yes, thought Harry with sudden clarity. Yes. That was the answer to what they should do about the name change fiasco. Never mind the thing about whether living lands were dark. Never mind about whether he was honouring Dumbledore or not. They would find the solution, save the wizarding world, and make everything else irrelevant.

Harry interrupted Hermione’s retort without even hearing it. “He’s right.”

“Harry?” asked Hermione, sounding a little hurt.

“Ron’s right,” Harry repeated. “We shouldn’t be sticking our heads in the sand either. If the Ministry is going down the wrong path, then we need to step in ourselves.”

“But…” said Hermione, but Harry could see the spark of enthusiasm lighting in her eyes. “We don’t have their resources. Still, I suppose there’s no harm in doing a little research.”

Ron groaned, but there was a grin twitching at his lips. Argument averted. “Just like old times, then?”

“Exactly,” said Harry. “For the sake of the wizarding world. For Rose.”

Harry put his hand in the middle of the perfectly stable, perfectly reliable, table, and waited until Hermione and Ron covered it.

"For Rose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short answer to NobleKorhedron, and anyone else re-reading from rough trade: There will be no major changes to the plot. The majority of the changes have been to convert ‘tell’ sections to ‘show’ sections, and the chapters are running at about one and a half times their original lengths.
> 
> A longer answer, for those interested: Very generally, writers fall into two camps – character-first or plot-first. Either writers adjust the plot to do justice to their character motivations, or they adjust character motivations to do justice to their plot. Ideally, the result is so organic that the reader can't tell the difference. (I’m still working on that). 
> 
> I write plot-first, to a very marked degree. I spend as much time on my outline as I do on writing, and every element depends on earlier preparation work. Because of this, any major flaws with the plot typically renders the entire project unsalvageable. I have tried to compensate and continue in the past, but those tend to be my abandoned stories. This story had a few problems with pacing, but I was happy with the overall progression.


	5. Teacher's Section of Hogwarts Library, Sunday 14 June 2099

_Teacher's Section of Hogwarts Library, Sunday 14 June 2099_

Harry looked up at Hogwarts, remembering his first glimpse of the towering castle. Even after all these decades and all those adventures, there were parts of the building he had never seen. Parts, perhaps, that he would never be permitted to see. Hogwarts was older and larger than any mere witch or wizard, and she kept her own secrets. She had been home to Harry, his dearest, most beloved home, but he had never made the mistake of thinking her tame. She might not consider humans prey, but they’d never control her either.

Harry was pulled from his thoughts as they entered the library by Ron and Hermione’s bickering.

Ron was saying, “You know, I would have thought you would have outgrown the impulse to solve all problems by spending the weekend at Hogwarts library.”

Harry glanced sharply at him. The tone was teasing, but the words bordered on something less kind.

“Does that mean you’re volunteering to check the main section?” asked Hermione.

“No, no,” said Ron with a laugh. “Save me. I’m sure the teacher’s section has everything we need.”

The teacher’s section was a mezzanine of the main library, and both it and the stairs leading to it were warded by age-specific charms. They worked similarly to the muggle ones around public apparition points - not only couldn’t students see them, they would also fail to notice staff appearing and disappearing. They were so successful that Harry had had no idea the section had even existed until he came back as an adult.

“Imagine if we’d known about this section while we were still at school,” said Harry, deciding to reinforce the light-heartedness. “We’d have permanently misplaced our brown-haired friend. I would never have had the chance to use my invisibility cloak.”

“Of course I wouldn’t have spent all my time here, Harry,” said Hermione. Harry opened his mouth to express his disbelief when she continued, “At the time, it wouldn’t have taken me more than a few months to completely consume the contents. But now look at it.”

Harry did, his heart sinking at the prospect. Hermione had every reason to be proud. Harry wasn’t the only one she had convinced to donate his family library. In the mess of living land after living land dying as they hit hundred and one years mark without an owner, she had been right there, advocating for Hogwarts. Harry was sure that the more expensive books had disappeared into private collections, but the bulk of the truly unique stuff was now here in the teacher’s section. That was why they were there. Since the ministry hadn’t found anything, they knew there was no point checking any published books. The answer, if there was any answer, would be in the personal papers. The raw diaries, journals, accounts and letters of generations of kings and lords.

Harry paused for a moment on the edge of the railing, looking down at the students getting in some final studying for their exams. He wondered just how often teachers had watched the trio from there, desperately trying to solve that mystery and save the world. Hermione had always been so convinced that any information they needed back then had been in one of those books. At the time, she’d always been proven right.

With an impatient sound, Hermione summoned him to where she was setting up. She had positioned them next to the high arched windows that ran the far length of the mezzanine. It was a beautiful summer’s day. Warm sunlight streamed through the stained glass to create a mosaic of golds and purples on the table and chairs, with the coolness of the open space preventing it from becoming oppressive. Inside this ancient oasis of magic, it seemed impossible to believe their way of life could ever be threatened.

Hermione pulled out a large index with columns just waiting to be checked. “Since we decided we’d start with investigating why living lands seem to be immune, I went ahead and separated out the papers dealing with them, with a highlight on the relevant passages. I think I’ve managed to fine-tune it enough, and I’ve excluded all the times it was used in the sense of ‘living off the lands’, but let me know if you’re coming across a lot of false positives in a similar theme. Harry, why don’t you take the Potter journals. I’ll take the Lestrange’s. Ron, do you want the Blacks?”

“No,” Ron said, but he took them all the same.

Harry imagined his own expression wasn’t too different. He had tried and failed to read the Potter journals before. He felt guilty about that. If he was the person he liked to think he was, he would have found them fascinating. In reality, the bragging of yet another person with yet another idiosyncratic take on spelling bored him to tears. One Potter after another who had considered themselves to be the most important person in their world, only to fade into obscurity as soon as they were entombed. But he wasn’t trying to read them for some sort of personal improvement this time, so it would surely be more interesting?

It wasn’t.

Oh, Hermione’s spell had done an amazing job, but there were still tediously many Season’s Change celebrations described in excruciating detail. And while intellectually he was interested at how the Weasley’s maypole was an echo of a ritual to encourage growth in a Sacred Tree, it was something he’d much prefer to read summarised and pre-digested. If there’d been even slightly fewer mentions of deeper understandings and more powerful connections, he would have lost hope entirely.

But the occasional mention was there, so Harry sat in Hogwarts library, feeling like he was cramming last minute for an exam he had skipped all the classes in. Every journal expected the reader to be familiar with so much context Harry was finding difficult to place. He knew the bare bones of the history, painfully self-taught many years after Binns had ceased to be the counterpoint to his naps, but the daily rhythm of a Lord tending to his land and his tenants was unfamiliar to him. It was coming together, but slowly. Very slowly.   

“And this place is making me hungry,” Harry complained to himself in a quiet voice.

A small nudge, and Harry noticed a house-elf had placed clotted cream scones on the side-table. Now there was something that hadn’t happened as a student. Harry grinned and nudged Ron in turn, who had resorted to turning pages while staring out the window. Neither of them drew Hermione's attention to the food. Part of it was to avoid bringing up bad memories. Hermione still felt guilty for how skittish the Hogwarts house-elves still were around her. More of it was to avoid bringing down a lecture about eating around books on their heads. There were protection spells on each and piece of paper that meant they would have survived a trip through the Great Lake without a smudge, but for Hermione, it was the principle of the matter. Ron and Harry succeeded in surreptitiously polishing off the snack, and Harry was in a much better mood when he went back to work.

Hours later, there was a tingle of magic when he picked up a workbook. Not from the book itself, but across the back of his neck and down his spine, in a way that Harry had only become sensitive enough to recognise towards the end of his career. People had told him it was a mistake to anthropomorphise magic like it had any thoughts or desires or its own. ‘The wand choses the wizard’ was a platitude, he had been told, not a description of intent. Random events were just that, random. Good luck and bad luck were just luck. Imagining something deeper running below the surface was an indication of mental illness. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to reveal his sensitivity to anyone.

But he paid attention when it happened. Instead of skimming through the experiments, he read them thoroughly and with close attention. One ritual jumped out, and he re-read it with excitement. Then a third time, with growing dread.

“Hermione?” he said in a small voice.

“Yes, Harry?” she asked, without looking up.

“Is the Potter land really dead? All the way dead, not just mostly dead?” Harry asked.

Hermione sat back and met his eyes. “Yes. You know that. What’s this about?”

Harry let his head fall forward to hit the journal. “A lost opportunity.”

Hermione asked, “What is it? Did you find an answer?”

Harry shook his head, his hair sweeping across the pages as his forehead rocked on the surface. “Not an answer, but I did find a way of getting one. One of my ancestors developed a ritual that let the owner ask any question of the land. Anything that had ever happened on the land could be shown to you in a vision. And it wasn’t just things like ‘where did I lose my keys’, either. Some of the experiments this guy tried were truly abstract. I figure if anyone knows how living lands stop the muggle encroachment, then it would be the living lands themselves.”

“Let me see,” said Hermione, pulling the book away without warning.

Harry’s head bounced on the table as it was abruptly deprived of its previous support, and he leaned back to rub his head. “Hermione!”

“I think you’re right,” said Hermione. “This might be it. This might really be it.”

“You just said that the Potter land was really dead,” said Harry.

“It is,” said Hermione with a wave. “But you aren’t the only person we know who owns living land."

Ron looked confused, but Harry was a little quicker on the uptake. "We're not asking Malfoy."

The horror on Ron's face would have been amusing in other circumstances. "Hell, no. Have you forgotten he's the person who got Rose killed?"

“His family died too, Ronald,” said Hermione. “This is hardly the time to indulge in childish prejudices.”

Ron started flushing. It wouldn’t matter if it was anger or hurt, if he erupted, Hermione would take it very badly. Badly enough that Pince’s many times successor would take offence with even a guest, and badly enough that at least one person would be sleeping on the couch.

Harry interrupted, “I don’t think he would have done anything to kill them either. He’s a victim too. Which is why it’s probably a bad idea to disturb him. He's in mourning, and three guesses who he's probably blaming for that. I doubt he would be willing to cast crucio on us if we were caught in a numbing trap. He can’t be the only one left with living lands. We can find someone who isn’t as involved.”

Hermione looked determined. “That’s precisely why it has to be Malfoy, don’t you see? We can’t risk asking someone who buys in to the ministry line too closely. We want someone who has the same reasons we do.”

“And you think that person will be _Malfoy_?” asked Ron. “Like that time you were convinced he’d help support you with that silly University Bill because Albus told you that Scorpius told him that Malfoy thought it would be a good idea? It will be exactly like that. Just instead of ‘Oh Malfoy, pretty please donate a hundred acres and two dozen house-elves so that the muggle-borns and riff-raff you despise so we can take away the educational advantages of you and your friends,’ it will be ‘Oh Malfoy, please let us use your living lands to figure out a way to take _that_ advantage away from you and your friends.’”

“He _did_ support the University Bill,” said Hermione. “The ministry were the ones who didn’t trust him enough—“

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what he told you,” said Ron. “And you just believed—“

“Guys!” interrupted Harry. “This isn’t the time to rehash old arguments. We can ask. If he says no, we aren’t any worse off than we were before.”

Malfoy would never be Harry’s first pick to ask for assistance, but he didn’t have Ron’s knee-jerk reaction either. Hermione had a good point. They did want someone who was as distrustful of the ministry solution as they were themselves. And the University Bill aside, Hermione had a way of powering through to get what she wanted. She might succeed with Malfoy.

Before Ron could come up with another argument, Harry said slyly, “Unless you want to carry on looking through these papers?”

Ron looked horrified and Hermione took that as a win.

“I’ll make a copy of the ritual,” said Hermione. “You write a letter to Malfoy. He’s most likely to respond to you.”

Harry composed the letter with interjections from Hermione, the sunlight was warm on Harry's head and neck. Quite probably this wouldn’t go anywhere. Malfoy would refuse, or the ritual would fail, or the land would tell them nothing meaningful. But it was good to have a direction. To be a team again. To be out there, doing something, and making a difference.


	6. Guest lounge of Malfoy's Club, Saturday 20 June 2099

_Guest lounge of Malfoy's Club, Saturday 20 June 2099_

Malfoy agreed to a meeting the very next week, but insisted it be at Umbratiles Arx rather than anywhere more personal. Ron had complained about the location all the way there. Apparently, Malfoy was showing off his wealth and his political connections in choosing the club. Harry thought Ron would have complained just as much about Malfoy not being sensitive to their feelings if he’d offered to meet at the manor, or being presumptuous and condescending if he’d offered to meet at the Weasley’s or Potter’s.

“This just proves things, doesn’t it?” continued Ron. “Being a good person practically disqualifies you from membership at these sort of places.”

Harry was glad he had never mentioned that the club had once offered Harry himself membership. Never mind that Harry suspected they’d only offered because they knew he would refuse. On paper, he had been a good fit, as the club had been a haven for Moderate Reformists at the time. But Harry had only survived his career with a policy of strict political neutrality, and they would have known that. Ron would have taken it as yet another betrayal, and Harry couldn't even predict if Ginny would have been disgusted at Harry being asked, or at Harry turning it down. With how little influence he now had over the current stupidity, Harry was coming to regret his decision to step back and let the connections fall where they may.

The staff made it very clear that they were not members. There was there was nothing overtly rude in their behaviour, but an affected surprise and suspicion coloured their interactions. It made Ron seethe, but Harry was more amused than offended. He might personally find it a little odd to be a snob by proxy, but he’d rather the staff showed an incomprehensible form of job satisfaction than that they showed no job satisfaction at all. They were led into a guest lounge, and Harry had to pause to let his eyes adjust. The heavy burgundy curtains were fully drawn, and the room was lit only by a single candelabra in the centre of a low mahogany table. Everything was old and solid and infused with the scent of decades of bitter coffee. Harry could well imagine that asking for milk or sugar in a place like this would get you promptly asked to leave.

Once they were seated, Hermione presented their theory on the cause of the magic failure, and how the Ministry refused to consider that the muggles might have anything like that sort of power. She stepped delicately through the observation that living lands didn’t seem to be affected. She concluded with a concise explanation of their research and the results thereof. Malfoy waited her out.

“I’m sure that’s fascinating, Granger,” Malfoy said, “but my entire family is dead. It won’t be many years until I join them and my line ceases to exist. What do I care if the rest of the Wizarding World fails as well?”

“See what I mean?” said Ron. “He’s just the same selfish prick he always was.”

Harry internally rolled his eyes. If Ron had been a little less emotionally involved, he would have recognised Malfoy’s words as a typical Slytherin opening position. Malfoy was telling the truth – the raw pain was clearly too deep to entirely conceal – but it was an invitation to begin negotiation rather than a dismissal.

Hermione said in a nagging tone that Harry hadn’t heard in a while. “Ronald Bilius Weasley, you need to show respect for our host—”

Ron leapt to his feet. “Respect? Respect? I’ll show this bastard exactly the kind of respect he deserves!”

Hermione stood up to intercept Ron, and Harry and Malfoy stood with her. “Please, don’t make a _scene_ , Ronald. You’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m embarrassing you?” asked Ron, indignant.

The shouting must have attracted attention, because a staff member eased his way into the room.

Malfoy smiled, and Harry flinched back despite himself. “I believe Mister Weasley was just leaving. If you could show him the way out?”

Hermione looked at Harry in appeal. Harry said, “Maybe let us handle it alone, Ron? I understand why you’re upset, but this isn’t going to help, and we really need to do this.”

Ron glared at them. “Fine. Whatever. You guys have fun.”

He stormed out with the attendant shadowing behind him like a sheep dog.

Once the door closed, Malfoy sat down like nothing had happened. Hermione looked just as unconcerned as she retook her seat, followed by Harry.

“And why my land?” asked Malfoy, “People might be hiding it now, but I'm not the only one who owns any. I'm sure at least one of them would jump at the chance to be a hero.”

"Because on your land,” she said, “then there's a second question we get to ask. Someone in the ministry got our children killed, and I want those fuckers to pay."

Harry and Malfoy had a moment of open mouthed disbelief at Hermione's vulgarity before her anger registered.

"You got Ron sent away deliberately, " said Harry with sudden realisation.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy and Harry blushed at having revealed something like that. Usually, Harry was a lot more circumspect in front of strangers.

Hermione answered almost too calmly, "We disagree about who is most likely to blame for the incident. Under the circumstances, I thought it was more important that I put my effort into convincing Malfoy than Ron."

Malfoy collected a biscuit and tapped it against the side of his cup. “Weasley blames me for killing my own family. How charming."

Hermione slammed a hand down on the table. "Malfoy, are you honestly telling me you care in _any way_ for what Ron thinks?”

Malfoy was shocked to silence, and Harry imagined it had been many years since Malfoy had lost control of his expression twice in such a short period of time.

“I didn’t think so,” said Hermione. She picked up the parchment and handed it to Malfoy. “Let's get back to more important matters."

"Revenge?" asked Malfoy, raising an eyebrow.

"Revenge _and_ saving the Wizarding World from itself," answered Hermione primly.

Malfoy took the parchment, and read through the ritual slowly and deliberately. Harry could tell nothing from his expression. When he had finished, Malfoy rolled it up and re-tied it with a careful knot. “This is a family ritual. Even if it weren’t for the inherent power levels, family spells work best for family.”

He made eye contact with Hermione, looking for something. “You know this.”

“Yes,” agreed Hermione.

“To get the results you are looking for,” said Malfoy. “This ritual needs every advantage it can get.”

“Yes,” repeated Hermione.

Malfoy leaned forward. “Do you honestly believe that the reward will be worth the sacrifice you are asking for? Worth it to _me_?”

Hermione mirrored Malfoy’s actions, their faces only inches apart. “I do.”

“You do?” asked Malfoy.

Hermione nodded sharply. “I do. Despite what Ron might think, I know you have a strong sense of duty. Succeed or fail, this is a way for you to perform that duty. And, forgive me for being indelicate, but everyone knows about Harry. You cannot claim that the advantage will be one sided.”

Everyone knew _what_ about Harry? Harry wished he could ask without upsetting the delicate negotiation Hermione was in the middle of. Despite having completely lost track of their arguments, Harry found himself holding his breath. Malfoy stared at Hemione without expression for a very long time, and then he seemed to relax, all at once. The perfect posture was still perfect, but it became a centred stillness rather than the tension it had been before. Malfoy stood, and with a century of etiquette pounded unwillingly into his head, Harry joined him.

Harry was half expecting Malfoy to call another waiter to escort them out. He wasn’t expecting Malfoy to drop gracefully to one knee and offered his wand with both hands.

“Harry James Potter,” said Malfoy, “I entrust my magic, my body and my land to your safe-keeping. I swear to be faithful to you above all others, and serve the needs of our lands in diligence, honesty and faith.”

Of course, thought Harry, feeling strangely light-headed. That was what the whole exchange had been about. It was a family spell. A _Potter_ family spell. For the best result, he would have to perform the ritual as the owner of the living lands – or at least, as the liege lord. Harry realised abruptly how neatly Hermione had trapped him. To deny Malfoy now would be an offence many times greater than refusing that initial handshake all those many years before. This was the practical exam for his previous week’s studying, and like many exams, it had blindsided him with an unexpected topic.

But he was good at improvising. Harry straightened his spine. He could not afford to be timid. He lay his hands on Malfoy’s wand. Exact words weren’t important here, he knew, but the sentiment would eternally affect the bond. As the magic swelled under his hands, he chose his words carefully.  “Draco Lucius Malfoy, may all know that I receive you under my protection from this day forth. As I safeguard and guide us all, so may you safeguard and guide me. May the lands you care for prosper under your stewardship. May magic grant us this.”  

“May magic grant us this,” chorused Hermione and Malfoy.

The glow swelled, throwing shadows on the panelled walls, before contracting around their linked hands to form a narrow band around Malfoy’s wrist. The band faded under Malfoy’s skin, and a presence flickered to life in Harry’s heart. His breath caught at the depth and the rage and the loneliness. Harry stepped back and helped Malfoy to his feet. With the wording they had both used, nothing would change legally. Malfoy would continue to manage the lands he owned and would owe tribute of nothing more than occasional advice. But magically – _magically_ – the lands now answered to Harry. Harry shuddered under the weight of that presence.

_The Weasleys could never find out about this._

Malfoy tidied his already neat hair, and affected nonchalance. “Well. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Me neither,” admitted Harry, not confessing he’d had no more preparation than Malfoy himself.

“You can perform the rituals immediately after I formally introduce you to the land,” said Malfoy. “Autumn Day? That gives me six weeks to prepare.”

Harry looked helplessly at Hermione.

“Sounds perfect,” she said.

“Very well. I will send you the details closer to the time. Madame Granger,” said Malfoy with a nod, and then with a deeper bow and a gesture to the door, “Sire.”

There was a wry twist to Malfoy’s mouth, but his words weren’t mocking. Whatever Harry might have thought about the old traditions, he might have guessed that Malfoy would take them seriously. Malfoy had just given up more to Harry than his father ever had to Voldemort, even if it was just for these final years of their lives. This wasn’t the time for Harry to be precious about terminology or etiquette. Harry nodded gravely back, and preceded him out of the room and then the club.

It would be worth it. It would be worth it for all of them. Six weeks. Just six weeks, and they would know.


	7. Chapter 7

_Malfoy Land, Saturday 1 August 2099_

The Weasleys didn’t celebrate Autumn Day, and Ron had been convinced to only arrive after the ‘boring sleeping bit’, so it was relatively easy for Hermione and Harry to slip away. They followed the paths into the woods until they reached the innermost grove. The heart of the Land was laid out in green for Autumn Day, and the altar held a riot of colourful apples, squash, and intricately shaped breads. The aroma of the food, the scent of the pine needles and the heaviness of age and magic was like water in humid air. The tree at the centre had leaves too metallic to pass as natural in the muggle world, and a presence too aware to pass as natural anywhere. It did not seem to mind Harry and Hermione’s presence. It was not, however, fully golden. Either Malfoy could not, or had chosen not to, perform that last binding and become a full king of the land.

It was the simplest of turn of the season celebrations, and the ritual was the simplest of requests. There was no resistance. Harry collapsed under the kaleidoscope of colours and sounds; the land reaching out to stuff memories into him. It was a moment and an eternity until he could detangle his own sense of self from that immensity.

“And?” asked Hermione, when Harry sat up. “Did you get anything?”

“A lot,” Harry said. “To both questions. We’ll need the pensieve for me to even make any sense of them.”

That, and Harry didn’t want to tell grieving parents himself.

“Personal one first,” said Hermione. “Then we call Ron.”

They all nodded, and Hermione and Malfoy wordlessly assisted Harry back through the paths to the conservatory and the prepares pensieve. The memory started with Scorpius and Astoria facing off against the ministry officials in front of the woods. Malfoy’s attention was immediately riveted on him, while Hermione had to move around a bit before spotting Rose hiding behind some colleagues.

Rose’s colouring never reaching the vividity of her cousins, and Harry remembered the teasing she had received because of it. But what had been washed out as a child had transformed into porcelain clarity as an adult. After the baby fat had melted away, the high cheekbones and the crystal eyes had highlighted her intelligence and curiosity. She had never been a pretty girl, but she had grown into a striking woman. Harry had supported and admired Rose’s dedication to her research, but he’d always hoped she would one day trust enough to reach out. Now, that would never happen. Now she was a footnote in a Ministry incident report.  

Harry’s attention turned to Scorpius. “I’m not denying that the paperwork is in order, but surely this can wait until the owner is present. What you hope to do might need--”

“The entire point,” said Jareth Whatisname, “Is _not_ to need the owner, not that I expect you to approve of that.  Be grateful we're even investigating how to disconnect the land. If I had my way, we'd free everything by executing the lot of you.”

Scorpius paled, and moved to stand more firmly between the official and his mother.

“Let’s get going,” said Jareth, turning to face his own crowd. “Move it!”

Harry turned away. He could not watch again as Rose was bullied into doing what she knew was wrong. He could not watch the expressions of fear and uncertainty on everyone else’s face. He could not watch the violent movements of the ritual the Ministry had unearthed. But despite himself, he turned back when the final moment came. There wasn’t anything subtle about it. The land shuddered, flocks of birds took to the sky, animals filled the undergrowth with sounds of panic, and the vista faded into sepia. On the edge of the woods, one pine lost the battle. Like popcorn over heat, the cracks grew closer together until the tree toppled in a rush.

A pause –- a brief eye of the hurricane.

Then the leader of the ritual staggered and fell, colour draining from him back into the leaves of the surviving trees. One by one, each participant in the ritual dropped into heaps of robes. Finally, Scorpius and Astoria collapsed. The birds returned to the trees, and the animals settled. If not for the uprooted tree and the pale scattered bodies, one might have thought nothing had happened at all. Harry didn’t have to be an expert to tell that the more enthusiastic of the participants were already dead, but the chests of Rose and the Malfoys rose and fell. Maybe if they’d been treated right away. Maybe if the Ministry had admitted to St Mungo’s what had happened to them. Maybe if none of this had happened in the first place.

Harry tore his eyes away and pulled them out of the pensieve. He still didn’t know what to say, but he knew he had to make an attempt. "I don't think the land intended anyone to die.  It didn't feel like it was trying to attack or anything. It was just that it was taking all the magic it could to heal itself, and they were there."

Draco laughed, too loud and too long. "It's not like I could blame the land if it was. What they were doing to it was horrific, and Scorpius failed his duty. You can't expect a land to understand about decrees and politics and centralised governments. They were torturing it, and it made them stop."

“What are they-- were they cutting off a piece of land?" asked Hermione.

Draco grimaced. “That would have been too kind. They were paralysing it. Neither the land nor the owner would have any control, but they would still feel all the pain and distress. This is my fault.”

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice.

“If I hadn’t been so fucking modern. So _weak_. Then I would have performed the proper ceremonies and known what was happening before they could have done any damage. Then Scorpius would have understood his duty and fought for the Land. Instead, we just stood around, obeying the law."

There was no answer to that. Not yet. Maybe once they had time to process it more, they could see it more clearly.

Hermione said at last, “We’d better call Ron. It’s getting late.”

Within short order, they were within the memory of the official question –- what to do about the survival of Magic. Unlike the previous answer, this was no simple memory. This was flashes of things. Voldemort, rituals, people. The longest scene featured people Harry was quite sure he had never met, and if the styles of their robes was anything to go by, were long dead. Frustrated, Harry was watching the others more than he was watching the visions, so he noticed Malfoy’s expression change.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“Do you know something?” asked Ron, more aggressively.

“I suspect something,” corrected Malfoy. “I suspect that’s the rite of the Normani. It fits the descriptions.”

Harry looked at it with new eyes. It did fit the descriptions. Now that it had been pointed out, he wondered how he hadn’t noticed before.

Ron snorted. “The wrong of the who, now?”

“Really, Ron?” asked Harry. “Even I’ve heard of it, so I know you have too. I mean, I thought it was just a thing they made up for plays, but I’ve heard of it.”

Ron crossed his arms and looked stubborn. “Well, I haven’t. Want to fill me in?”

Hermione took over from him. “We don’t know much of this for sure. Like Harry said, most of the information we have is stories told about the Normani, rather than primary sources. Before every major war or event, the Normani would perform a rite that involved either an actual, or symbolic, murder of a child.”

“Either? That’s quite a difference!” said Ron.

“Stories go both ways. Anyway, if the war or event didn’t go the way Normani would have liked, legend has it that they would go back to the same place, and enact the _second_ half of the rite. Supposedly, that would send all the participants back in time to the moment the first half was completed. With greater numbers and all the information they would succeed the second time around.”

Ron turned to Harry, “And you’ve watched plays about this? What kind of dark magic have you been exploring?”

“It’s just a literary device, Ron," said Harry. "Everyone uses it. They don’t promote dark magic, and they don’t kill the kid. If you note, the child in this ritual walks away just fine, as well.”

Ron was now in full righteous indignation mode. “I’m not talking about the dark magic of the death of a single kid. I’m talking about the dark magic of _time travel_. This isn’t a timeturner, where the only person whose reality being changed is the one using it. This totally rewrites history for everyone. That’s the same thing as sacrificing the lives of every person on the planet for their selfish gain.”

Malfoy disregarded Ron entirely. “If this has something to do with the Normani rite, then why was the land showing Harry all those splintered images of the dark lord?”

Hermione frowned in turn. “I think… I think because it was trying to show something that didn’t happen on the land, so it was putting things together to suggest it instead. It shows Voldemort doing things, but the order isn’t chronological. It shows Nagini and the diary. It shows the Normani Rite. What if it’s trying to say that Voldemort performed the equivalent to that first half of the Normani rite when he turned Harry into a horcrux?”

Like was when Malfoy had first mentioned the rite, Harry felt a sudden certainty of rightness. It wasn’t just that the conclusion made sense, although it did. It was like the land – or magic – was standing just out of earshot screaming ‘yes!’.

“Oh Merlin,” said Ron. “Let’s never mention that again. Not ever. If you were upset about people saying things about the Potters being dark? It’ll be nothing compared to what they will say if they find out you’re the centrepiece of a dark ritual like that.”

Harry wanted to disbelieve that anyone would blame him for the things that were done to him against his will, but he’d lived too long in the Wizarding world. That’s exactly what people would do, and in the most irrational and self-defeating way possible.

 Hermione puffed up herself. “You’re afraid of what _people are going to think_? Is that what you care about most from what we just learned today?”

“What am I supposed to care about?” asked Ron.

Hermione spoke slowly and patronisingly. “Harry asked how to save magic. The land answered with images about time travel. That means that the land thinks it’s already too late to do anything.”

“The only thing that means is that the land is dark and can’t be trusted,” replied Ron. “Big surprise there.”

Ron looked at them all in turn. “Please tell you agree with me. Tell me that none of you are contemplating for even _a single moment_ trying to enact this travesty.”

Harry shuffled, and even Hermione looked a little uncomfortable.

“Of course not,” she said. “Not yet. But if we investigate further and it turns out there is no other way to save magic, don’t you think--”

“No!” said Ron. “Some things are too steep a price to pay for anything. If there is no other way, then we die. This is evil, Hermione. What’s more, this is stupid. Dark rituals take their price, and I shudder to know what price something this powerful would demand.”

“We’ll find another way, Hermione,” said Harry. “We’ve only just started investigating. Even if we're right and Voldemort did the equivalent of the first half of the rite, it’s not like it means we can do the second, even if we wanted to. Come on. Let’s get home.”

But as soon as Ron turned away, Harry placed a conspiratorial hand on Hermione’s shoulder. His instincts were shouting at him, and none of them were screaming that time travel was impossible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advance notice that I will not be updating during Nanowrimo. Feel free to follow my current Rough Trade project instead - a Tony DiNozzo & Xander Harris Sentinel fusion urban fantasy (in case I haven't crammed enough fandoms into one story). A prologue for it will be posted here in the next few days.


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